Fire and Ice
by enchantedink13
Summary: "For an instant, Neal seemed to stay there in the air, suspended, his arms flung helplessly to either side of him, his head thrown back, hair glowing and backlit by the fire as Kate's plane exploded and burned behind him." The aftermath of Kate's death as Neal's world shatters and Peter and El try to help him grieve.
1. Fire

**Fire**

The cold of the air bit at his skin, stinging his cheeks, seeping through his thick wool trench coat and black turtleneck as if they weren't there, chilling him to the bone. On the horizon, gray clouds gathered in an ominous wall, portending the fast-approaching blizzard. Neal adjusted the strap of the black bag over his shoulder and quickened his pace as he approached the mouth of the hangar that opened out onto the tarmac, wanting to get in the air before the storm hit.

His plane was waiting, the doors open, and as he stepped out of the building's darkness, there was a movement behind the first window of the plane. Kate's form appeared in the black open doorway, just close enough for her face to be clear and visible, every bit as beautiful as she'd ever been. He could make out her dark hair, the purple of her shirt, the creamy paleness of her face, and the way her lips curved into a smile when she caught sight of him. She raised her hand in a half-wave, shy, almost hesitant, as if the joy of finally being with him was too perfect to fully believe in.

Neal raised his hand in answering greeting, unable to contain his own smile. _Finally_. He'd been waiting for this moment since Peter had cuffed him in a deserted warehouse five years ago and pulled him away from her. Her eyes had been huge and haunting then, full of all the fear of the unknown. Now, he was almost near enough to her to see the love and desire that he knew would be in them. The adoration that he knew was shining back at her out of his own eyes. They were free at last. A whole life spread out in front of them, pure and waiting with the enchantment of endless possibility with someone whom he loved so much that he could hardly comprehend it.

And suddenly, a voice behind him called his name, the only voice that could make a difference, the only one that could make him hesitate now, now when Kate was so near that he could feel it, a stirring in his chest that made him feel more alive than he ever had.

Peter.

"Neal!" Peter called, footsteps audible as he ran after Neal out of hangar.

Neal glanced back, whatever joyful thing that had been in his chest now sinking. He glanced back at the plane, but Kate had slid back, out of sight, from the doorway.

"Are you here to arrest me?" Neal asked, knowing already that, had that been Peter's intent, he'd have drawn his badge by then.

Instead, Peter was beaming, his hands held out on either side as if to say, _What about me? You're forgetting something._

What he actually said was, "I'm still a civilian. And I know about Mentor."

Neal's eyes flitted back and forth, unwilling to settle on Peter. His plane was waiting, his life was waiting, but Peter wouldn't have come unless he'd had something significant to say. Neal had already half guessed that Peter would find out about Mentor sooner or later. Judging by Peter's track record, probably sooner. There had to be something else. A better reason for Peter to have come.

"And I know you can walk away, and it's all legal," Peter was continuing, as if he'd known that, to hold Neal, the next thing out of his mouth had had to be something unexpected.

"Then what are you doing here?"

"I'm here as your friend."

Neal bit down softly on his lip. _Please don't make this harder than it already it is_, he wished desperately, knowing in spite of it that Peter always made things harder. Especially when one of those things was running away. Again. This was like being caught by Peter for the third time.

"You understand I'm getting on that plane," Neal said, the words steadying when spoken aloud, a way to anchor him to what mattered, even in the face of the man who'd given him his freedom and friendship and, most astoundingly of all, his trust. _A trust that you're breaking with every step you take toward that plane_, something in Neal's mind nagged.

But he had no choice. Kate was on the plane, and he'd already made that choice, made it the day he concealed an emerald engagement ring on the finger of a statue in Central Park, _their_ statue, and vowed to himself that someday he would give it to Kate so that she'd always remember how much he loved her.

"I also know you're making the biggest mistake of your life," Peter said levelly. If he'd sounded angry, or as if he was about to send Neal back to prison, he'd have been easy to resist. But he wasn't. He was just sure. Suddenly, more sure than Neal was.

"This is what's best for everyone," Neal insisted, hoping that saying it would make it more real, make him believe it. He wanted to glance back at the plane, wanted to see Kate's face, because that would have made everything clear, but he knew that she wouldn't reveal herself while Peter was there. So instead he continued, "You go back to your life, I get to have one of my own."

"You already have one!" Peter said, as if it should have been obvious. "Right here! You have people that care about you. You make a difference."

Neal bit his lip and looked away uncomfortably. Peter had it wrong. He wasn't the one who made a difference, _Peter_ was. Peter had made him want to be better in a way that nobody - not Mozzie, not even Kate - had.

"You do," Peter insisted, voice gentle, seeing Neal's disbelief.

Neal tried to say something, to tell Peter that he couldn't stay, that it was no use trying to convince him, because he owed Kate this. Owed her a new beginning. Not one tied to him in New York while he earned what was hardly a salary, tethered to the FBI for another four years. He couldn't waste any more of Kate's life. He wouldn't. She deserved better than that. But Neal's breath caught in his throat, words beyond him, so instead he reached into the breast pocket of his coat and his gloved hand fumbled for the single thing that he could give back to Peter. The only way he could find to say, _"I'm sorry."_

He drew out the relic that he hadn't been able to bear to part with before, when he'd been choosing what to bring, even though it was an incriminatingly identifiable piece of documentation. "Thank you for this," he said, his throat constricting around the words as he gave it up and surrendered the last part of what had been both the best and worst months of his life. He pressed the FBI consultant ID into Peter's hand, and it was far more painful than it should have been to relinquish. But it seemed to be the only gesture that would make Peter see that he meant it when he said he was leaving.

"I gotta go," Neal said quickly, trying to make his escape while he could, while Peter was still processing what had just been handed to him, before he would look up and see the way Neal's face was twisting with regret.

Neal's eyes stung, and he told himself that it was just the cold and the wind, and turned away before he could lose any more control over himself. He had just gotten enough steps away to let out the breath he'd been holding when Peter called out, "You said goodbye to everyone but me." Neal froze in his footsteps, unable to move. "Why?" Peter asked, not sounding hurt or offended or anything but the steady, constant presence that he always was.

Neal took a moment to rearrange the features of his face into a mask of having it together before he turned back around and shrugged helplessly. "I don't know." It was the most difficult lie he'd ever had to tell.

"Yeah, you do." Of course Peter wouldn't take that for an answered. "Tell me."

"I don't know, Peter." This time, it was a desperate plea for Peter not to push, to let him keep pretending that every moment he stood there, knowing that in a second he'd have to turn around and leave, wasn't killing him.

But when did Peter ever not push? "Why?" Peter repeated, almost smiling, as if this should be simple.

And even though Neal knew, intellectually, that he could ignore the question and join Kate on the plane, where he should already be, he owed Peter at least the truth, this one last time. "You _know_ why," he said, not trusting his voice to say the words himself. Not trusting himself to be able to leave once he'd said them.

"Tell me!"

Neal glanced back toward the plane for a moment, torn, and when he turned back to Peter, a tear was running down his face, leaving a cold trail across his cheek. "Because you're the only one who could change my mind," Neal finally said, his chest clenching painfully as if the response had been ripped from within him.

Peter's eyes came alive, a hopeful light in them appearing, and Neal realized that Peter hadn't actually expected him to give in and answer. And the fact that he had was only making the next moment more difficult for everyone. "Did I?" Peter asked, his eagerness barely contained in his voice.

Neal flinched almost imperceptibly and tried to apologize for what could never be changed, but suddenly there was an uncomfortable ache in his throat, choking off the words. He tried twice to swallow past it, but it was useless, and he gave up and began walking to the plane.

The lump in his throat rose with every step he took, and a few lone snowflakes fluttered down past his face, melting instantly on contact with the pavement. He tilted his head up to the gray sky and tried to blink back the tears in his eyes. It was wrong - everything about it. Being free shouldn't hurt so much.

Before he could really think about what he was doing, Neal stopped and spun part way around to look at Peter, no longer caring about the tracks of tears across his cheeks. "Peter." His voice was urgent, but he couldn't manage to say anything beyond that, anything that wouldn't betray either Kate or Peter or both of them.

Peter looked up, that hope back in his eyes, even more intense now, but before Neal could find the words he needed or even decide what it was he was trying to say, there was a burst of sound from behind him, a flash of heat and light, and his world shattered. Neal saw Peter's face light up orange for a moment, reflecting back the flames that had flared up out of nowhere behind them, and then an unyielding blast of force knocked Neal's body out from underneath him, throwing him limply out toward Peter as if he was weightless.

For an instant, Neal seemed to stay there in the air, suspended, his arms flung helplessly to either side of him, his head thrown back, hair glowing and backlit by the fire as Kate's plane exploded and burned. The moment passed, and he collapsed onto the tarmac, crumpling against it, hard.

He'd risked everything for Kate and now there was nothing left below him, no safety net, nobody to catch him.

Neal was on his feet before he could register what was happening, scrambling up and towards Kate - except that she wasn't there anymore, nothing was there anymore, not even the plane. There was only a furious ball of flame rising up out of what had been the fuselage, which was now split open, a cavernous void of fire and burnt metal that Kate had disappeared into.

Somehow, though, Peter had started running before Neal had even gotten onto his feet, and just as he began running to Kate, Peter caught up to him and flung his arms around him. They were rough and warm and restraining, holding him tight, even as Neal strained against them.

Neal fought him, hating him for keeping away from Kate. From saving her. From at least trying to. Peter was surprisingly strong, and even though his grip had been hasty, Neal couldn't break it.

Neal became aware of Peter growling something in his ear, and after a second the noise became words. "Stand down, Neal!" he was ordering firmly. Peter grunted as Neal gave a particularly vicious twist of his body that almost set him free from Peter's grasp, but Peter stayed firmly attached to him, repeating, "_Stand down_."

Gradually, Neal became conscious of someone screaming, and he wondered at how inhuman they sounded. It was half words, half just desperate noise. _"No! No, no, no! KATE!"_

He realized that the screaming was his own voice, and it snapped him out of his frenzy long enough for his wild eyes to focus on the burning plane. _"Oh my god."_

And the next instant, he was shrieking again, his eyes unfocused, tears and falling snow and smoke obscuring his vision. All he could see was an afterimage, when he closed his eyes, of Kate standing there, framed by the doorway. His eyes flew open, and the doorway no longer existed.

"_NO!"_ He threw an elbow into Peter's chest and tore himself free. He'd managed to stagger about ten feet toward the plane before Peter slammed into him from behind. Peter's weight and speed brought them both tumbling down, hard, onto the slick, wet tarmac. Neal struggled to rise again, but Peter planted an arm across the small of Neal's back and trapped him there. After a moment, Neal stopped struggling and collapsed limply against the black pavement, choking on sobs and ashes.

"You're letting her die!" he yelled at Peter. "Let me get to her!"

"You can't help her, Neal," Peter told him forcefully. "Stand down."

"But she's burning!"

"You can't do anything anymore." Peter loosened his grip just slightly as he felt Neal give up underneath him, but he kept his elbow on Neal's back, just in case.

"We were going to run away."

"I know."

Neal suddenly tensed, and then he was fighting against Peter again. "Let me go! We were supposed to be together! I should be there with her!"

"You're supposed to be right here," Peter hissed at him, bearing down on Neal to keep him pinned against the ground.

"_She's leaving me behind!"_ Neal exerted a last effort against Peter and then sank back to the tarmac, his chest heaving, his shoulders wracked with a fit of coughing as he gasped for air and choked on smoke and ashes. His body went slack and he bowed his head over his arms, giving up, sobbing like his heart was shattering, without control or even shame that he was coming apart in pieces in front of Peter.

Peter moved to lay next to Neal, knowing that this time he wouldn't try to run to the plane. It was over.

Neal shuddered, his body convulsing involuntarily. He reached into the bag at his side and drew out the bottle of Bordeaux. _Their _bottle of Bordeaux. Except now it was just his, because nothing was left of Kate except the ashes raining down on them.

"I promised her a better life with this," he said, speaking more to himself than to Peter. "I broke my promise." And now he looked over to Peter. "I broke it." As he spoke, he raised his arm as if to smash the bottle against the ground.

Peter caught him by the elbow and held him still. "Don't do something you'll regret, Neal."

"I don't have anything left to regret." His voice, his face, everything about him was desolate. But he allowed Peter to bring his arm down and coax the bottle from his numbed fingers, setting it aside, out of his reach. And Neal knew that with the gesture, just as he and Kate had kept the bottle as a promise of their life together, Peter was promising him that his future wasn't burning along with Kate in the remains of what had been going to be their escape to freedom.

* * *

**A/N:** I hope you liked this, even though this episode happened ages ago and this was mostly taken directly from the show. I'm considering extending this story into a two-part, with a chapter about immediately afterwards when they take Neal back to prison. I'd love to know what you thought of this story and about the possibility of continuing it, so please review!


	2. Ice

**Ice**

It was perhaps the most undignified trip Neal had ever taken in a police cruiser. The first time, he'd been too happy that he'd found Kate to really care about anything else. The second time, after Peter had caught him again - the word _again_ didn't even sting anymore, not now - he was too busy planning a way to get out on a work release to contemplate the time he'd have to spend in prison first. And during his short stay in jail for forging the diamond necklace - a crime he hadn't even committed - he was too indignant and shocked that Peter had turned on him so quickly, at the word of an FBI agent who'd just shown up out of nowhere with a clear bias against Neal, to think of anything else.

But this time, there was none of that keeping him inflated. He was cold - they'd taken his thick wool trench coat away at some point, probably to pat him down - and his clothes and skin were streaked with ashes and stank pungently of engine fuel. The smell turned his stomach, and he closed his eyes, trying not to think too much. His hands shook inexplicably, the metal cuffs around them clinking softly against each other.

"We'll get you out," Diana vowed from the front seat. "I promise." Peter had argued with the NYPD for what'd seemed like an hour to get them to allow Diana to be the one to take him in. At least, it'd seemed like an hour. But then again, time had weirdly slowed down, every second thick and painful and throbbing, so it was hard to tell.

"Okay." His voice cracked - it was hoarse from screaming and his throat was raw and burning from the sting of ashes he'd inhaled.

"They can't keep you in long. They've got nothing on you."

"Sure."

"You're shaking."

"I'm cold."

"You've got to have a better cover than _that_, Caffrey."

In a very small, posterior portion of Neal's mind, he appreciated the effort she was making to act like anything about this car ride was normal. But he was too exhausted to think about that while carefully not thinking about everything _else_, so he shrugged and stopped trying. "Whatever, Diana." Even to his own ears, it sounded unlike him.

"_Neal_." Her voice was sharp.

He opened his eyes and stared at her dully. She was stopped at a traffic light, watching him critically in the rear-view mirror. "What?" The question came out in a tired sigh.

"You didn't do this."

Neal blinked at her. Of course he hadn't, did she think he didn't know that? It was obvious. But somehow, what came out in response was, "I could have stopped it."

"Oh really? How? Forgive me if I don't believe that even _Neal Caffrey_ is that good."

"I could have handed over the treasure when Kate asked me to." A pause, and he amended, "Any of the several times she begged me to."

"I thought you didn't have to music box."

"It might have changed things anyway, if he'd been able to see for himself that I didn't have it."

"It wouldn't have. Fowler'd have thought you were withholding it." Diana's voice was reassuringly firm, certain, as if this was any case and she was in the conference room, busily taking pleasure in poking loopholes through all of Neal's suggestions.

"I could have been smart enough to see the message Kate gave me in Morse code the day she left."

Diana scoffed at this. "So you're telling me that the word 'bottle' would've made you break out of prison any faster?"

Neal scowled in spite of himself. She was always so infuriatingly right about everything, and it was strangely therapeutic to work through the possible situations systematically, as if they really were just collaborating on a case. "Fine. So I could have not spread the rumor that I had the music box in the first place."

"You had no way of knowing that that would come back to bite you."

Her tone moved from calculating to sympathetic, and Neal couldn't hold back his fury with himself. "So I just watched Kate burn to death because I had _no way of knowing_? Like hell that's any consolation." The fire in his voice seemed to surprise even himself, and he snapped his mouth shut with an audible click before he could say anything else that would reveal how much he blamed himself.

Diana must not have sensed that he'd reached the limit of conversation that he could endure, because she didn't let up, saying, "She could have let you know what she needed less cryptically. She could have cooperated. She was playing a guessing game with you, it's no wonder that you couldn't catch up.

"Don't you _dare_ pin this on her." Neal's voice was low and dangerous. "Kate didn't know any better. She didn't even _want _me to look for the music box in the first place. She broke up with me over it. She was the only innocent person - she's the last person who should have suffered because of this. I never taught her how to deal with people as dangerous as Fowler. She didn't know any better." Neal seemed to realize how much he'd said, and stopped talking, out of breath, as if he'd been running.

Diana looked up in surprise at him. "Okay," she agreed, and this time she had the sense to not push any further.

When they arrived at the prison, Neal allowed himself to be guided inside meekly enough, nodding or shaking his head in response to the few questions that were asked of him as he was passed off from the warden to the guard. He waited for Diana do most of the talking, and, thankfully, she did.

The guard leading Neal and Diana paused in front of a large holding cell with two prisoners already in it, and they looked up immediately, their interest clearly piqued by the new arrival.

"Jeff, look at what they brought in," one said loudly to his cell mate. "Looks like a fresh one, too."

On any other day, Neal would have laughed at them for being ignorant enough not to recognize Neal Caffrey when they saw him, and would have wasted no time in educating them on his many achievements. Now, though, he only stared back at them, realizing that he probably did look exactly like one of the first-timers.

The other prisoner - presumably Jeff - wrinkled his nose at the odor of engine fuel, still heavy in Neal's skin and hair despite his change of clothes into the traditional orange prison jumpsuit. "He smells, too. Must be street crime." Jeff glanced at the guard. "Why are you locking him up with the white collar section?"

Diana looked from Neal's crestfallen expression to the two men in the cell. "Maybe they're right," she said to the guard. "Could we have a single cell?"

The guard turned his bored, unyielding gaze to her. "Look, lady, this is a federal prison, not a five star hotel, so I don't know who you think you are asking-"

Diana cut him off by reaching into her pocket and flashing her badge in front of him. "I'm Agent Diana Barrigan, and I'm not asking, I'm _requiring _a single cell."

The guard opened and closed his mouth and finally turned curtly away, stalking down the corridor until they reached an empty cell. "Happy now?"

"Very." Diana smiled at him smugly, and on another day Neal might have laughed at the dumbstruck expression on the guard's face.

The guard unlocked the cell and let Neal enter. He'd relocked it and was staring expectantly at Diana, waiting for her to begin to leave, when she said abruptly, "I'd like to speak with my arrest." Neal raised his eyebrows slightly in surprise - hadn't she had plenty of time to say anything that she'd needed to while they were in the car?

"Go ahead."

"I wasn't asking permission." When the guard still didn't move, she smiled at him again, one that was far too wide, coming from Diana, to be genuine. "I can find the way out on my own."

Once the guard had left, she turned to Neal, who'd taken a seat on the cot against one side of the cell. "I'm going to get you out."

"You already said that," Neal reminded Diana.

She narrowed her eyes at him, but Neal could see that behind it, she was secretly relieved that enough of him still existed for him to be correcting her. He pretended not to be aware of it, and kept looking levelly at her.

"Well, I'm saying it again. I'll be back soon, okay?"

"Yeah."

"Good. I mean it." He raised his eyebrows at her, wondering how long she was going to have a conversation with herself and pretend that it was with him. "Be here when I get back, Caffrey."

He smiled at her and waited until her footsteps were no longer audible as they disappeared down the corridor before he buried his face hopelessly in his hands and let out a long, shuddering breath, and ran his fingers through his hair, not minding that the ashes on his palms got in his eyes and stung.

* * *

She didn't come back soon. In fact, she didn't come back at all. When someone finally appeared in front of Neal's cell, it was Peter. "Hey, Neal," he said when Neal didn't turn his head away from the crack in the floor that he'd been tracing and retracing with his eyes. "How're you holding up?"

Neal looked up at him and offered a brittle grin that looked like it was on verge of snapping in half. "I'm great. You know, familiar surroundings."

Peter looked like he was going to argue with that kind of an answer, but instead he cleared his throat and said, "Well, it looks like you're going to be in these surroundings a little longer than we expected. The NYPD seems to think that you might have been… involved… with the explosion. But don't worry, we're still going to get you out."

In the back of Neal's mind, he wondered if so many FBI agents had ever before promised a single criminal that they'd get him out of prison so many times in one day. Probably not. Out loud, he said hollowly, "I don't care."

Peter chuckled and let himself into the cell with a key that Neal hadn't noticed he'd been carrying. Peter waited until he had settled himself leaning comfortably against the wall opposite Neal before he said, "You know, that's what you said to me the second time I caught you."

"Really." Neal tried to sound as disinterested as possible, wishing that Peter would stop. The day he'd been caught for the second time was full of too many memories that he didn't want to have - ones so clear and vivid and cuttingly _precise_, ones that made him feel the recollection of it all as if it was happening again, just when what he wanted most was to feel nothing.

"Yeah," Peter was saying, an oddly nostalgic smile on his face. "You didn't mean it, though. You wouldn't have brought me back to ask for the work release if you had meant it."

"Well, I mean it now."

"I don't believe that."

"No offense, Peter," Neal laughed humorlessly, "but you not believing something I've said isn't exactly a surprise to me anymore."

"I'm sorry about Kate," Peter muttered irrelevantly, shuffling his feet uncomfortably and not quite meeting Neal's eyes.

Neal smiled in spite of himself at Peter's ineptness in delicate social situations and wondered idly how difficult it had been for Peter to work himself up to saying those simple words. "You don't have to do that," Neal told him, raising his eyes to look at Peter.

"Do what?" Peter's voice was gruff, and Neal almost laughed at it.

"The thing where you try to talk about how I feel."

"Oh, thank God," Peter said quickly, before he seemed to realize what he'd just said and start backtracking. "I mean, we can, if you want-"

"I don't want."

Peter nodded, relief evident on his face. "So. Bail." He moved to sit next to Neal on the cot, the rusting metal joints of it creaking under the weight of the two of them. "We can still get you out of here today if we petition for bail now. The FBI will pay it, I've taken care of that. But you'll have to testify if they're going to grant-"

"No."

"What? No, you don't understand-"

"I understand perfectly," Neal interrupted again, his voice level but uncompromising. "And I said no."

"They won't make you say much, it won't be like your trial. They're just going to ask you a couple questions, I'll be right there to vouch for you-"

"Peter, they're not going to grant bail. It won't take them that long to get to the part where I was fleeing the country."

"Well," Peter coughed nervously, "I may have left that out of the official FBI report."

"So how do you think I'm going to explain that I was out of my radius?"

"Technically, I was with you at the time of the- when it happened. So you weren't breaching any rules."

"I cut my anklet."

"You've done that for a job before, with my permission." Peter leaned around, trying unsuccessfully to look Neal in the eyes. "We can do this, Neal."

"We're not going to."

"Why not?"

"Because."

"Give me a good reason. Tell me why."

Neal flinched visibly, and Peter realized that those words were the ones he'd said just hours ago at the hangar, right before the plane had exploded. Nevertheless, it was too risky to let Neal brood without knowing exactly what it was about - Peter had learned that quickly enough in their time together - so he pressed on after a moment's hesitation to allow Neal time to collect himself. "Why don't you want bail?"

"Kate's dead."

"I'm sorry," Peter said, clearly failing to see the connection.

"It's not her fault. It has to be somebody's fault."

"I know I delayed you," Peter cut in, obviously thinking that he'd understood. "I know you'd have been on the plane by then if I hadn't showed up. But I had to try to get you to stay. I know you think you should have been on the plane, and I know I didn't let you get to her after it exploded." Peter paused for a moment, both of them remembering that instant, the sudden flash of light and heat as the plane went up in flames, and the way Peter had started running towards him before Neal had even had time to move from the ground, the way he'd held him back through Neal's struggles and screams, until they'd both collapsed, drained, on the cold, damp tarmac. "So fine," Peter finally continued. "Go ahead and blame me. But don't let that be the reason you refuse bail, because you're smarter than that."

Peter took a deep breath as he finished, and Neal turned his head to look over at Peter. "That all you've got to say?"

Peter nodded after a moment's consideration.

"That was a very impressive speech, but that's not what I meant. I don't blame you." Before Peter could say anything positive, Neal pushed on in a hurry, continuing, "But someone has to be responsible. It should be Fowler, but he'll have disappeared by now. And it's not you, because you had good intentions. Kate shouldn't have been the one who died. So I have to stay here." Neal watched Peter expectantly, unsure what kind of response to anticipate.

"Let me get this straight." Peter's tone was incredulous. "You're punishing yourself for Kate's death."

Neal grimaced - it didn't sound the same as the way he felt about it when phrased like that - but he nodded anyway, figuring that the distinctions hardly mattered anymore.

"And you're choosing to do that by staying in prison," Peter clarified.

Neal shrugged.

"Please tell me that there is something more to your insane logic than what I just said, because that is the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

Neal chuckled, shocked into laughter by such an unexpected ridicule. Peter had spent years studying him, chasing him, knowing everything about his life and the way he thought, down to his very shoe size. So why couldn't Peter see this? He had been going to have a life with Kate. A real one, one where they didn't have to run. One where he might even have been somebody more than a conman - an artist, maybe. But without Kate, any kind of life at all was hollow. Wrong. One that he didn't want to have, not without her.

Neal had rarely ever been held accountable for anything he did. There was no repercussion, no consequence. That side of him had always infuriated both Peter and Kate. So here was accountability. For Kate. For everything.

Neal realized that Peter was still waiting for an answer, so he finally looked over to say the one thing in their partnership that was concealing nothing. "Doesn't matter if it's stupid. I still don't care."

"You're going to change your mind," Peter said forcefully, as though if _he_ believed it hard enough, he could will Neal to believe it, too. "You changed your mind last time."

"Last time I had someone to get out of prison for."

"Neal, for the last time, you have people on the outside besides Kate."

"If I change my mind, you'll be the first to know." Neal told himself that he was only saying it because it seemed to be the only way to get Peter to leave, but somehow, saying the words aloud - even as he was telling himself that they were just a con - made them a possibility. A way out. A way to live.

"Good," Peter said, rising to go and letting himself out of the cell. "I'll get out of your hair for now. The little guy said to tell you he won't drink your bottle of Screaming Eagle Cabernet but not to count on the rest of your collection being there when you get out."

Neal laughed under his breath. "Okay."

"I'll be back tomorrow." Peter paused, tapping his hand anxiously on the bar of the cell, as if there was more he wanted to say.

"Peter?"

Peter raised his eyebrows, his expression clearly relieved that the burden of a parting statement wasn't being left to him.

"Thanks."

Peter smiled and nodded and left, both men wondering just how far that one word of gratitude extended over everything that had happened between them.

* * *

**A/N:** Thank you all so much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! I loved each of the reviews and you guys inspired me to extend this into not just a two-part, but a four-chapter story. So I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter, and I'll write the next one as soon as I can. Please review, and thanks for reading!


	3. Water

**Water**

Neal had never been more alone. When Kate had said goodbye to him across a thick pane of dusty glass in a prison visitation room, when she'd turned away from him and left without looking back, he thought that was what _lonely _felt like. When he'd clung to a payphone and stared into her wide, frightened eyes - so far away, even though her voice was right there, in his ear - and heard himself say that he couldn't help her, he thought that was what failure was. When he'd watched Kate burn, knowing that he wasn't strong enough to break free from Peter's hold and join her - after all, he'd never been strong enough for that - Neal had thought that _that _was complete and wrecking desolation.

It wasn't.

Alone was when Peter came faithfully for his weekly visit on Thursday afternoons, and Neal couldn't think of a single human thing to do or say. It was how Peter promised that his CI position would be open for him whenever he was ready for it, and Neal, who'd made a living by spinning escape routes with his words, didn't know a way to tell Peter that he'd never be ready, that the part of him which knew how to con people had died along with Kate. Alone was how he could no longer pretend to be something more than a broken man who'd stopped running for an instant too long, who'd hesitated a moment and been left behind.

He was dying between walls of concrete and steel, under diamonds of blue sky framed in barbed wire. And he deserved it, too. He'd earned this pain in the moment that he'd hesitated in his walk across the tarmac and turned away from Kate. It didn't matter that he hadn't gotten a chance to say the traitorous words. He knew that he'd been going to say he couldn't run, and Kate - faithful, patient Kate - had seen and would have known, too. For that one instant before her death, she'd have known that he betrayed her. It was crime enough to warrant any sentence that the judicial system had to offer.

It was the reason Neal hadn't fought to live when his cellmate pinned him against the wall of their cell and reminded him with a razorblade against his throat that dainty-faced snitches weren't welcome there. Neal's stillness must have been frightening to the man, because this wasn't supposed to be premeditated murder, this was supposed to be a lesson in respect, and there was supposed to be a struggle - that was the code. You fought. Not fighting was a kind of anarchy that didn't happen.

It was disconcerting enough for him to shift his hold on Neal and slide one strong hand down to grip unyieldingly around Neal's wrists, dragging them palm-up before Neal as though they were cuffed. He brought the razor down, across the blue veins running diagonal over the delicate white skin of Neal's inner wrists, watching Neal's eyes widen with pain and surprise as blood beaded up along the silver edge of the razor and then ran down in between Neal's fingers to drip onto the concrete floor like tears.

There was blood, a lot of it, too much, and when Neal sank down the length of the wall - almost as if he was losing consciousness, except surely there wasn't _that _much blood, and his eyes were bright anyway - his cellmate was the one to drop the razor with a clatter and bang on the bars with the palm of his hand and shout until guards had come running and picked up Neal, who had truly blacked out by then, and carried him away.

The next time his eyes had opened, he'd been more alone than ever in a solitary confinement cell on Block C of the compound, and Neal hadn't been released since. His hands were restrained, even though it had been a week since he'd woken up in his new cell. _Suicide watch_, they had told him, when he complained about the soft cuffs that held his hands to the sides of his stretcher.

Nobody listened when he explained that he didn't want to die, that he hadn't even touched the razor, that it had been his cellmate. They nodded with a cool pity and said empty things like _catatonic _and _loss of appetite _and _resistance to treatment_, and then they'd told him to lie back and slipped those soft, padded restraints onto his wrists. They didn't say anything about _dead girlfriend _or _charged with her murder_ or _too late._ They'd overlooked all the parts that mattered.

On the other hand, the restraints were loose and Neal hadn't bothered to slide out of them, even though he knew he could, so maybe all those medical words _had _meant something, because it apparently they were enough for the guards and medics to see that he had nothing to run for this time.

If prison was purgatory, then solitary confinement was hell, a place for the sinners who were too broken for repair, too dysfunctional to live with the people who still felt alive. Neal hated it - hated his reflection in the rectangular pane of one-way glass, hated the way he woke up screaming, hated how somewhere in the midst of smoke and ashes and the stench of burning flesh, he'd lost the precision of control that he'd once exacted over himself. He hated that nobody was fooled by the cons anymore. He hated that people saw him when he didn't want them to, when another Neal of another time might have dazzled them with a smile and a witty remark.

His one consolation was that solitary confinement meant there were few people who had the opportunity to see him. When Thursday afternoon arrived, Neal stared pensively at the ceiling and decided that loss of his visitation privileges could even be considered a benefit. He missed Peter, yes, but there was also a vague relief that he didn't need to pretend that he was the same man who'd set out across the damp tarmac of an airfield with a smile on his lips and an unbroken promise in his heart.

So when the door of Neal's cell opened on that first Thursday and a beautiful, brown-haired woman with intense blue eyes walked in, _Kate _was the name that came involuntarily to his lips.

He regretted it as soon as he realized with faint horror that it was Elizabeth, and saw pity dawn across the features of her face. "Neal," she said, seating herself next to his stretcher in a metal chair. "I'm so sorry."

"You shouldn't be here. I'm not allowed visitors."

"It's not your fault you're in solitary confinement," El said, and Neal didn't bother to argue. "I persuaded the guard to let me see you. Of course, it helped to say that I had special permission from Agent Burke."

"Do you?"

"No," El smiled mischievously. "Peter doesn't know I'm here. He'd probably try to talk me out of it if he did."

"Maybe he should have," Neal said quietly, and though he'd intended the words to push El away, she frowned and leaned in instead, taking his hand in hers. _What had happened to his ability to guide people's actions with just the power of what he said?_ He wanted to pull away, not quite caring that it would hurt her to do so, but the cuffs around his wrists kept his hand where it was.

"Why?"

"Because."

"Come on, that's not an answer."

"I'm not doing this again," he said between gritted teeth, and they both knew that he meant the back-and-forth between him and Peter on the airfield.

The steely determination in El's eyes softened with sympathy, but it didn't waver. "Then just be honest with me. Why don't you want visitors?"

"Because I don't want to say goodbye to anyone else."

"You don't have to." El's browns furrowed in confusion. "Peter didn't miss a single week."

"I know." Neal tried to look anywhere but at El. "You two can't be chained to me indefinitely." Neal laughed bitterly. "Look at where that ended with Kate."

"This isn't the same thing, Neal," El argued, and Neal was grateful that, unlike Peter, she didn't presume to know things she didn't and tell him that he wouldn't be in prison indefinitely. He was grateful until she squeezed his hand and asked, "What happened to the man who believed in happy endings?"

Neal hardened his voice and pretended that he wasn't in hell and that it didn't sound utterly insane to talk about himself in third person, like the disembodied, hollow vessel that he was. "He's gone."

"You're not gone."

It was more than Neal could bear to argue with her, to try to explain that she and Peter were wrong. "Why are you here?"

"Someone had to come knock some sense into you."

Neal almost smiled; she was blunt and fearless as always. "What did I do this time?"

"First of all, you let this happen," El said, shifting to sit on Neal's stretcher next to him and touching his wrist lightly just above the bandages. Neal closed his eyes and inhaled slowly through his nose and tried to pretend that if he couldn't see El, it meant she wasn't there, looking at him with soft blue eyes that were too compassionate. Eyes that made him think maybe she could see straight through all of his cons.

"Neal, honey, when Peter told me you were trying to punish yourself by staying in prison, I didn't think he meant _this_."

Neal's eyes flew open. "It's not what it looks like," he assured her quickly. "My cellmate-"

"I know. Peter told me." El paused and removed her hand, and Neal unclenched his jaw without realizing that he'd tensed it in the first place. But El continued before Neal had time to relax, and said quietly, "Just because your cellmate was the one holding the razor doesn't mean this isn't something you did to yourself."

"C'mon, El, you know I'm not-"

"Not what? Harming yourself? You don't have to be here. You _know _that you don't have to be here. You're choosing it - even if you didn't choose to be injured," El was quick to add. "So honestly," - she paused and gazed at Neal sternly - "why are you doing this?"

"I'm not interested in a work release anymore," he answered tightly.

"Surely doing something you're not interested in is better than - than this?" El gestured around the room with a sweep of her hand that seemed so helpless in its manner that Neal almost told her the entire truth.

Instead, he closed his eyes again and swallowed. "No."

"You know, I thought you cared about Peter," she said abruptly. "I know that when you were arrested, you only asked for the work release because you needed it to get to Kate." El paused, and Neal could hear her sigh in a way that made her sound older than her age. It made his chest twitch uncomfortably, to know that he was the reason for that sound. But before he could make an apology or an excuse, El was continuing, "I understood that. God knows I'd do the same for Peter. I even understood when you tried to run. But I thought that, in spite of it all, the job - Peter - everything, came to mean more than that."

"It did." His hands were shaking, and with his hands cuffed to the bed, he couldn't hide the tremor from El the way he used to hide it from his cellmate.

"Then go back. He needs you."

"He'll get his closure rate back up," Neal smiled, the gesture feeling strange after a week. "Especially with Diana back now. Cruz was good, but-"

"No, Neal," El interrupted, her voice sharpening. "He needs _you_. Not your expertise."

Neal curled his trembling fingers into his palms. "Don't say that."

"It's true."

"Most CI's end up back in prison. Peter's read the statistics."

"You were his friend too."

"Don't."

"_Neal_." He squeezed his eyes shut tighter and tried not to feel El lay her hand on his shoulder. "Peter isn't going to stop waiting for you to come back. He isn't going to disappear like-" she broke off and hesitated for an instant. "Like Kate did. And you know you can't avoid your life forever."

"That's not my life anymore." Neal could hear the stubborn childish note in his own voice, and didn't like it there.

"You're dying in here, Neal," El insisted, and they both knew that she didn't only mean the wounds on his wrists. "You're missing things that you'll regret. We had to bury Kate without you."

Neal swallowed and shook his head. _No._ _Stop._ He wasn't ready.

"Nothing you do is going to put you back on that plane."

Neal's throat jerked without his meaning it to, and produced an awful strangled sound. And El must have understood how much he was struggling to be composed, because she stopped and waited in silence.

"Peter thinks I blame him," Neal finally whispered. He waited for El to confirm this, but when she didn't, he added, "I think that's why he keeps coming. Because he thinks that I haven't forgiven him until I take the work release."

El said nothing for a long time, but Neal finally felt her stirring over him, and she answered slowly, as if she wasn't sure she should say it, "Peter knows that you don't blame him."

Neal took a moment to get over his surprise, and then said, "Good." He could feel El waiting for him to ask it, so he gave in and muttered, "Then why does he come?"

"Not everybody disappears when things get rough."

Neal suspected that she meant that Kate did, but arguing the matter further would mean opening his eyes and talking, so he nodded instead.

El's hand moved from his shoulder, down his arm, and she slid her fingertips lightly in between his for the next question. "What are you waiting for here? I _know _you don't do things without a reason, so be honest." She gave the command with such simple confidence that he would obey, and that was perhaps the reason why Neal did.

"I'm waiting to stop missing her."

"Neal, honey, that's never going to happen if you're hiding in here."

Neal's eyes flew open to glare at her at that, his gaze hard and blazing. "Do you think it'll be any better out there?" he all but snarled.

"No, but, eventually-"

"I don't _have _eventually," he hissed, voice low and fierce. "I've _never_ had eventually. Not with Kate, not with my- not with anybody," he corrected before the word _father_ could slip out. "You think I can go back to the FBI and run cons when I can barely be _myself_?"

El withdrew her hand from Neal's, her eyes wide and shocked and wary in a way that frightened a small part of Neal. He was pushing her towards rejection, and yet he couldn't stop himself.

"I have flashbacks, and I can't control them," he continued, his voice strained and breaking. "I have a tremor in my hand that I don't know how to stop. I can't control myself anymore. I don't even recognize who I am. I don't know how to _live_ anymore." With his hands bound to the bed, there was no way to disguise the grief in his face, but he tried anyway, blinking furiously and uselessly against the burning tears in his eyes and swallowing back the wild thing in his throat that was thrashing to escape.

"You're grieving. It doesn't make you a different person."

"Feels like it," Neal muttered.

"I know." She reached down and stroked Neal's hair gently. Her fingers stilled for a moment when he tried to jerk away, but then they were moving again, more lightly, perhaps, but just as surely _there _as before.

"Please." His voice caught and quivered without knowing what it was begging for.

"I'm not giving up." She said it like it was a retort.

"El, please, I-"

"You need to stop running. You see that that's what you're trying to do here, don't you? Except this time you're not getting anywhere."

Neal turned his face away from her and whispered something inaudible.

"What was that?"

"_Just like last time."_

"At the hangar?" And El's voice, which had been so knowing and confident, suddenly turned confused.

"Peter didn't tell you that part?" Neal looked up, his dignity too far gone for him to care about hiding the tears on his face. "He didn't tell you how I was right there, and then I was too late? How I made Kate wait on the plane - God, after she already waited four years for me - and then I turned around to tell Peter that I couldn't leave, that I was going to stay, and she just- the plane- I wasn't even _looking_!" He unraveled, his words breaking and tumbling into each other in frenzy of guilt and grief and despair. "The last thing she saw was me turning away from her!"

"Neal-"

"She gave me _everything _she had. And I- I wanted too much. I wanted her and I wanted Peter and I wanted the white picket fence and the PTA and I- I-"

"Shh." El leaned down over him and slid her arms around his shoulders, feeling him come undone in her embrace.

"She thinks I didn't choose her."

El drew back and looked at him gravely. "Neal, if she loved you, then she knows how good your heart is. She knows that you were trying to give her everything, too." She paused a moment and looked at him, as if waiting for him to believe it. "Come back to us?" Her tone made it a request rather than an expectation, and Neal was grateful for it - grateful that, even though he was lying there with tears still on his cheeks and in his eyes, and with El's hand still on his, she was giving him the choice.

"I'll think about it," Neal said quietly, not committing altogether, because promises get broken.

But El's hand tightened around his fingers, and then she was kissing his cheek unexpectedly and whispering a fervent _"Thank you"_ against his ear, and both of them knew that his true answer had been _yes._


End file.
